Wizard Of Crime.txt

by Wizard of Crime (lit)

  participant in the game of crime.

  Flicking his flashlight on Gruble's toothy mouth, The Shadow saw that the

  scrawny man was dead. His flattened pockets, outspread coat, showed that he

  carried nothing on him. Though The Shadow had not yet learned Gruble's

  identity, he classed him as an important cog in the crime machine.

  Possibly Gruble's usefulness had ended tonight. Those shots that had

  killed him might have been ordered by the master criminal. Whatever the present

  schemes of R. G. Dean & Co., there was one man close at hand who might provide

  some useful information regarding them.

  The Shadow was thinking of the driver who was operating this rapidly

  moving car.

  Rising, The Shadow pushed his automatic over the top of the front seat. He

  wondered, momentarily, why the driver had not turned on the bright lights; for

  the lane, though straight and rutted, was quite steep and showed only hazily by

  the glow of the dimmers.

  The question was answered when The Shadow pressed his gun point against

  what seemed to be the driver's neck. A high-collar coat slumped downward, a

  shabby felt hat rolled to the floor. The car was driverless; the figure at the

  wheel was nothing but a dummy, that fell apart under pressure of The Shadow's

  gun!

  Some crook had released the hand brake, to let the sedan roll down hill

  under its own momentum. It wasn't in gear, it was in neutral. This car was

  slated for destruction, and Gruble - whether alive or head - was suppose to go

  with it. The same applied to any chance passenger who might have joined Gruble

  for the ride.

  The Shadow was such a passenger. By the dashlight, he saw the object that

  had propped up the fake driver. It was a thing shaped like a big pineapple.

  Still keeping to the deep ruts of the straight lane, the sedan was doing close

  to forty, and ahead, something gray was looming into the dull glare of the dim

  lights!

  HEADLONG, The Shadow dove across the car. His hand, shooting ahead of him,

  slashed the door handle downward with a single sweep. As on a previous night,

  The Shadow took a reckless, breakneck dive out into the open, but this time the

  impelling force was entirely his own.

  Shoulder first, The Shadow hit the ground beside the lane, rolled over

  three times and bumped his head against a chunk of rock. With that forceful

  blow came a fierce blast of light, a huge roar that seemed to burst The

  Shadow's head.

  Those were not illusions, caused by the thump that knocked The Shadow

  senseless. The swaying sedan had reached the end of the lane, only thirty yards

  ahead. The gray mass that it struck was a stone wall. The crash had bounced the

  pineapple against the steering wheel.

  The blast was the explosion of a huge bomb, that ripped the halted car to

  shreds, dismembering Gruble's body and destroying all traces of the dummy

  figure at the wheel. Another of the death devices designed by R. G. Dean had

  done its appointed work.

  More narrowly than ever before, The Shadow had escaped the fate that the

  master crook had so often tried to deal to him!

  CHAPTER XIV

  THE MISSING SWAG

  THREE men reached the stretch where The Shadow lay unconscious. One was

  Harry Vincent; with him were Joe Cardona and Vic Marquette, the Fed. It was

  Cardona who spoke the identity of the well-dressed fighter, when he saw the

  pale, blood-streaked face in the glare of a flashlight.

  "Lamont Cranston!" he exclaimed. "I thought he'd gone to South America!

  Say - the commissioner will be upset when he hears about this. Unless" -

  Cardona did not intend his afterthought to be humorous - "unless the

  commissioner is still sore about Cranston shipping all those squawking birds to

  the club."

  Harry and Marquette were stopping beside the outstretched figure.

  "His head is all right," said Harry. "That cut isn't very deep."

  "He took it on the shoulder, though," observed Marquette. "It looks like

  it was dislocated. We'd better get him to a hospital."

  Some of the house guests had arrived. Cardona detailed them to carry

  Cranston up to the mansion. Harry Vincent guided them with a flashlight,

  keeping close watch to see that no one jarred the injured shoulder.

  Near the head of the lane, they found a waiting limousine. It was

  Cranston's car, Stanley, the chauffeur, had driven it across the lawn and

  through the hedge. They put The Shadow into the rear seat, and two of the

  carriers told Stanley how to get to the nearest hospital.

  It was Harry who spoke later to the chauffeur, just as Stanley was about

  to drive away. Harry undertoned the words:

  "Better take him to Dr. Sayre."

  Stanley nodded. He wasn't one of The Shadow's agents, but he knew Harry to

  be a close friend of Cranston. Furthermore, Stanley was familiar with some of

  Cranston's eccentricities. He knew that his employer had a habit of poking into

  strange and troublesome places; that when he needed a physician's services he

  always preferred to go to Dr. Rupert Sayre.

  Thus, with Stanley's assistance, Harry had seen to it that The Shadow

  would not meet with any new complications while unable to handle them.

  It was quite clear to Harry that the bomb-laden sedan had been partly a

  trap for The Shadow, should he appear upon the scene tonight. The big brain who

  had baited that snare would certainly make allowance for The Shadow being

  injured; not killed.

  If so, the Long Island hospital would be watched, in case Lamont Cranston

  happened to be sent there. Any watchers provided by R. G. Dean would certainly

  be capable.

  The master crook's mobbies had demonstrated that they were clever. Not

  only had they grabbed Weylan's pile of wealth; to a man, the tribe had vanished

  after the running fight from the house to the hedge.

  In battling the thugs, Weylan's guests had taken some trophies in the way

  of handkerchief masks, flashlights and guns. By picking up lost revolvers, they

  had been able to continue the pursuit, harrying the mobbies all the more. But

  they had failed to capture any of the swift-footed crew.

  Crooks had made a complete getaway in the blackness. A complete search of

  the grounds around Weylan's house failed to reveal any hiding of crippled thugs

  who might have been deserted by their scattering pals. Nor was there any trace

  of a single dollar or bond that had belonged to Carter Weylan.

  RETURNING from an inspection of the blasted car, Cardona and Marquette

  joined in the fruitless search for men and money. It was Cardona who expressed

  the opinion that the swag might have been in the sedan with Gruble; but

  Marquette thought it unlikely, for he felt that they would have found some

  traces of it.

  Carter Weylan took his loss philosophically, on the ground that he would

  no longer have the money if he had paid it over to Gruble, the agent for R. G.

  Dean. He felt that he had exposed the master crook's racket, and therefore had

  a good chance of reclaiming his lost fortune.

  While police and servants searched the house, on the chance that the

  bundles had been stowed there by the hurried crooks,
Weylan went around

  congratulating the party guests, thanking them for the timely aid that they had

  given him.

  Such chaps as Fitzcroft and Caulden were nursing scratches, black eyes,

  and swollen jaws, while a few had received minor flesh wounds that needed

  attention. But there had been no serious casualties among them.

  Weylan was particularly anxious to learn who had rescued him from murder

  at the hands of Gruble, but no one took credit for the deed. Harry Vincent felt

  it good policy to minimize the part that he had played in Weylan's behalf.

  Harry was still worried over the matter of the vanished mob; he felt that

  a few lurkers might still be dodging around Weylan's spacious premises. Some

  might even be bold enough to eavesdrop near the house, in which case the less

  they learned, the better.

  Among those who received Weylan's congratulations was Ralph Atgood. He was

  using Harry's policy of keeping silent, for two reasons. First, Ralph was

  learning things that utterly destroyed his confidence in the beneficent Mr.

  Dean; again, he had played no part in the fray wherein the other guests had

  routed the mobbies.

  Ralph had been dancing with Alicia when the lights went out. They were the

  only couple on the floor, for the dance had just begun. Thinking the thing a

  joke, they had kept on dancing, until gunfire alarmed them. By that time,

  everyone else had gone crook-hunting except Ralph.

  He felt very conspicuous in his unmussed evening clothes, while most of

  the other guests were smoothing grass-stained coat lapels and pinning up torn

  swallowtails. Alicia seemed to understand Ralph's thoughts, for she drew him

  aside and mentioned the matter.

  "I was to blame," she said. "The others were out on the veranda, or

  strolling somewhere, when the trouble started. It was my fault, keeping you on

  the dance floor, Ralph."

  "I'd like to have gotten into it," returned Ralph, grimly. "Somebody

  should have been able to recover a part of your father's money."

  "Dad will get it back," assured Alicia. "The police have searched the

  house, but they are out looking through the cars. Maybe the crooks threw the

  package in somebody's automobile."

  Alicia's hope was short-lived, for Cardona and Marquette soon returned,

  stating that the cars had been inspected and that no cash had been found. They

  said that the guests were free to leave, so the party began to break up.

  After a short talk with her father, Alicia joined Ralph.

  "I'm going on board the boat tonight," said the girl. "Dad thinks it would

  be best. So you can drive me to the pier, if you wish."

  RALPH was quite pleased by the opportunity. Alicia had the servants carry

  her luggage out to his coupe. Most of the guests were waiting to say good-by to

  Alicia; some of them helped the servants put the trunk and suitcases into the

  rumble of Ralph's car.

  Harry Vincent arrived from the house just as Ralph's car pulled away.

  Since the rest of the guests were departing, Harry decided that it was time for

  him to leave. He had many details that he wanted to report to Burbank, but none

  of them included a theory regarding the missing swag.

  Riding into Manhattan, Ralph was discussing that perplexing subject with

  Alicia.

  "From the lists your father had," he told the girl, "the cash and the

  bonds would have made a stack a foot and a half high. That would be a pretty

  big bundle for anyone to carry."

  Alicia nodded.

  "I know you trust the servants," said Ralph. "but I was looking them over,

  just the same, to see if their pockets bulged. They didn't. They were as

  smooth-fitting as the dress suits that the rest of us were wearing."

  "Not quite so rumpled, though," laughed Alicia. "Did you see Percy

  Caulden? He looked as if he had been through a mowing machine!"

  Ralph dropped the subject immediately, remembering that his clothes were

  the only ones that had not been partly ruined. They reached the pier and he

  said good-by to Alicia at the gangplank, then started to drive back to his

  apartment.

  Wondering what to do about the Dean question, Ralph decided to wait until

  the morning, in the hope that Weylan's lost wealth might be recovered. He

  became a bit shaky at the thought that some shift of chance might cause him to

  be branded as one of the crooked band.

  Then came the satisfying thought that he had been treated like the other

  guests, had been accepted as equally honest. He was glad that the police had

  searched his car, along with the others that had been standing out front.

  Perhaps, as matters stood, Ralph would be able to learn more about the

  Dean organization and therefore supply the police with valuable evidence, when

  he told them his truthful story.

  Leaving the car in front of the apartment house, Ralph bundled up a light

  topcoat that lay on the shelf behind the seat. He hadn't worn the coat tonight

  because the weather was too warm. From the way it had been mussed, he decided

  that the detectives must have looked through it while searching the car.

  It was not until he entered his apartment that Ralph began to realize how

  heavy the coat was. Shaking it, he found that the pockets were weighted.

  Looking for the reason, Ralph fished in a pocket; his fingers felt the crinkle

  of crisp paper.

  Struck with a sudden alarm, Ralph spread the topcoat on a couch.

  He was right. Weylan's pile of wealth made a big bundle, even when divided

  into three packets, two in the side pockets of the coat, the third in the inside

  pocket. Ralph's topcoat was literally stuffed with cash and salable securities,

  to the extent of a quarter million dollars.

  Ralph Atgood stifled a groan. Confronted by new mystery, he realized that

  he was deeper in crime than he had ever supposed. The missing swag had turned

  up - in Ralph's own possession!

  CHAPTER XV

  RALPH HEARS HALF

  RALPH ATGOOD had long ago conceded that his true story, if told to the

  police, would be considered flimsy. He had thought, at times, of confiding it

  to some person who would not doubt his sincerity, such as Carter Weylan. In

  fact while chatting with Alicia's father earlier this evening, Ralph had felt

  that Weylan would believe him and give him sound advice.

  He had decided to wait until after Alicia's party was over, and therewith

  had made a great mistake. He realized, too late, that if he had told Weylan

  about the Dean business before Gruble's arrival, it would have helped. But

  crime's new stroke, delivered in Weylan's own home, had changed all that.

  Right at present, Ralph's first course would be to visit Weylan and return

  the stolen funds. Naturally, Weylan would be glad to regain the quarter million,

  but he would want to know how Ralph had recovered it. That was the hitch, and a

  big one.

  Even Ralph, present possessor of the missing wealth, was unable to guess

  how it had reached his car. The quick disappearance of the mob that had invaded

  Weylan's house was a trivial mystery compared to this one. The crooks could have

  been lucky enough to scatter and get to cars hidden some distance from Weylan's

&n
bsp; estate. But how, or why, any of them would have doubled back, to plant the

  boodle in Ralph's coupe, was something quite unfathomable.

  Maybe Weylan and the police would not consider it such. They might jump to

  the simple idea that Ralph was more than a dupe; that he was an important cog in

  the Dean organization. They would presume that Ralph, thinking the swag too hot,

  was trying to ease himself out of the game by restoring the funds and pretending

  that he had never really been in the mess.

  They would want to know a lot about R. G. Dean, and when Ralph failed to

  tell it they would discredit his dupe story altogether. Thinking that prospect

  over, Ralph could picture himself undergoing a grilling at the hands of Cardona

  and a squad of detectives.

  They'd give him a going-over, until he cracked. But Ralph had often

  wondered what happened to chaps who didn't "crack" for the simple reason that

  they had nothing to tell.

  Mopping the sweat from his forehead, Ralph wished that he was actually

  guilty, instead of innocent. Then, at least, he could give himself up, tell

  all, and take his proper punishment without going through an undeserved ordeal

  at police headquarters.

  Sight of the valuable bundles belonging to Weylan brought Ralph back to

  his original idea: that of returning the money to its owner as soon as

  possible. Out of a new flood of hopeless ideas came one that struck him like an

  inspiration.

  Alicia!

  She would believe whatever Ralph told her. If he talked to her, and gave

  her the recovered funds, she would willingly return the property to her father.

  She was the sort, too, who would never tell where the recovered wealth had come

  from, until Weylan had cooled enough to listen to a reasonable story. At least,

  Weylan would give Ralph the benefit of all doubt, if Alicia insisted that he do

  so.

  IT was easy enough to reach Alicia. The cruise ship had an extensive

  telephone system, connected with an outside wire. Calling the pier, Ralph gave

  the number of Alicia's stateroom and received a sleepy-voiced reply.

  When he told the girl that he wanted to meet her, she replied that she had

  already undressed and gone to bed. It was plain that she wondered why Ralph